The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes by Marcus Sakey Read Free Book Online Page B

back, arms and legs flailing, foot cracking into the side window of the BMW hard enough to set off the car alarm. A screaming horn yanked him upright, eyes wide, heart slamming against his ribs, hands fists and armpits sweaty as he stared around, placed himself, the car, the backseat of the car with the alarm going off, the cacophony hideous, the alarm screaming look at me look at me look at me until he fumbled for his keys, finally found them, stabbed the button. The horn died mid-honk.
    “Fuck,” he said, gasping. “Fuck me.” Sunlight pounded in the windows, and his skin was sticky. He flopped back against the seat.
Sleep was becoming more trouble than it was worth. What were these dreams, this feeling of a terrible looming danger? Was it just his subconscious painting a picture of his situation? Electrical signals bouncing around the inside of his very confused brain? Or did it mean more than that?
Something must have caused all of this. Something set him in motion. No matter who he had been, he couldn’t believe he just woke up one morning and decided to drive across the country to drown himself.
He closed his eyes, tried to concentrate on the world he’d just left. He remembered a tunnel and an abandoned place. A darkness that loomed. But the details were melting away even as he tried to hold them. He could invent reasons for being there, but that’s all they were, inventions, and he couldn’t be more certain of them than of anything else.
Maybe I did something horrible. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to go back.
Daniel rubbed at his eyes, listened to the settling beat of his heart. He’d made some distance last night, all the way from rural Maine to rural New York, long blank stretches of night country briefly broken by shimmering cities. Somewhere east of Buffalo his chin had hit his chest for a second time, and so he’d pulled off into this hideous parking lot of a KOA campground. RVs hunched on concrete pads, electrical cords trailing to junction boxes. Amazing how ugly much of the country was.
We had the whole wide world, and the best we could come up with was McDonald’s and miniature golf.
He sat up, pushed open the car door, and went in search of the bathrooms.
Back on the road, he kept to the speed limit. Daniel figured he was safe so long as he avoided notice. He’d swapped plates again last night, trading the stolen Maine plates for freshly stolen New York ones. And the cops couldn’t stop every BMW on the road. He should be safe.
Simple as that, huh? So let me ask you, genius. You woke up without your memory once. What if it happens again?
Shit.
Shit.
Another thing. Money. His remaining cash wouldn’t even cover gas to Los Angeles. Plus he had a thing about eating, wanted to keep doing it.
Okay, well, so. No one said it would be easy. He’d have to be smart.
He spent the day sliding down the spine of Lake Erie, then across the flat, bland plains of Ohio into Indiana. Somewhere outside South Bend, as the sky began to sadden, he left the highway for a grungy strip of retailers, car dealerships, and gas stations. There was a drugstore beside an Applebee’s. Daniel bought himself a school-lined notebook and a pack of pens, then went next door. Bypassed the chipper teenage hostess and took a seat at the bar, a gaudy mess of Christmas lights and televisions tuned to sports. A guy who looked like he’d sampled a few too many appetizers took his order.
“A,” flipping through the menu, “steakhouse burger with everything. Rare.” Saying it with confidence this time.
“Something to drink?”
Daniel stared at the taps. God, a beer would be good. Money, though. He should save—“Yeah, gimme a tall Sam Adams.”
He uncapped the pen. How to start?
Simple. Start with what you were trying to say. That was the secret to writing. Daniel bent over the page:
Hi.
    Your name is Daniel Hayes. At least, you think it is. That’s the name you found on the insurance card of a BMW that saved your life.